Eleanor And The Duke (Berkshire Brides Book 1) (9 page)

The sun shone brightly on the water, and bees buzzed about the clover in the grass. Derington had once been a devoted father. In those days, he hadn’t gone running off every night to chase skirts and lose his money at the gaming tables. Eleanor didn’t know what had caused him to change, but the change had not endeared him to her. By the time she’d come out in society and become engaged to Beckworth, she had barely acknowledged him as her father.

And yet his illness and death . . .

She forced aside her upsetting memories and put her satchel down beneath a tree. Pressing the blanket to her breast, Eleanor smothered her sorrow, refusing to shed the tears that burned the backs of her eyes. There was no point. She could not imagine Derington caring about her tears, anyway.

Swallowing the thickness in her throat, she spread out the blanket. She sat down and removed her shoes and stockings, then took a quick look around to be sure she was truly alone before unbuttoning her bodice.

In a few short moments she was completely undressed, but for the thin cotton chemise she wore under all her dull, black clothes.

She stepped into the water and found it refreshingly cool. She waded out to deeper water, then lay back and floated, gazing up at the clear, blue sky while she tried once again to empty her mind of all its troubling thoughts.

But her melancholy would not abate. Nor would her questions. Eleanor could not understand why Derington had thought it acceptable to make Beckworth trustee of her funds. When her father had come to Florence to chastise her for leaving England and an incredibly desirable marriage, Eleanor had made it perfectly clear that she would never wed the duke.

Obviously, Derington thought they were well-matched, in spite of Beckworth’s philandering ways. Her father must have believed that renewed contact with the duke to work out the disbursement of the annuity would result in a new engagement.

It would not.

“You know the rule—”

Eleanor sank under the surface of the water at the sound of Beck’s voice and came up sputtering.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, treading water.

“I knew where you were headed and really, Ellie – you should have brought your maid at the least.”

“I am quite a good swimmer, Beckworth,” she said, her feathers thoroughly ruffled. She felt like some poor duck in the sights of a hunter’s rifle. The only thing missing was the hound.

“No sense in taking chances.” He removed his coat and sat down on the blanket she’d brought.

“Haven’t you anything better to do than badger me?” she asked.

“No.”

“What about your appointment in town?”

“I postponed it.”

“Not on my account, I hope.” As much as she wished to leave, she could not get out of the water. Her chemise would be practically transparent now, and she had no intention of inviting the kind of trouble that would bring.

She dove deep to give herself some distance. Could she outlast him by staying in the water until he was so bored that he left? Somehow, she doubted it. He had not come all the way to Berkshire only to be deterred from his quest.

Not that she was about to capitulate. All she needed to do was persist in saying no and avoid his company, and eventually his own estate or his duties in London would require his presence. He would then leave her to her own devices.

Perhaps she ought to invite Joshua to dinner. Not tonight, of course, for they’d been together just that afternoon. But in the next day or two. Even so, she knew Joshua was not fully in agreement with this deception. She was going to have to convince him to help her.

She surfaced and took a deep breath. And just as she realized Beckworth was not sitting next to the tree, she felt a terrifying tug on her leg.

He came up next to her, wearing . . . well, she could see he was not wearing a shirt.

She gave out a quick squeal and started to swim away, but he was too quick. He grabbed her and pulled her against him.

“Release me, Beckworth! This instant!” she cried.

But he did not. He drew her up against the length of his body, which seemed to be entirely bare.

Her breath caught in her throat when he slid his arms around her waist. She felt his broad chest against her back, and then his lips touching her neck. Against her will, she tipped her head, giving him better access to that wildly sensitive spot where her shoulder met her neck.

“You are the most extraordinary woman I’ve ever known, my lovely Miss Easton,” he whispered in her ear. All while driving her mad with his warm breath, and the feather-light caress of his lips upon her skin.

Ellie could not speak, not when his hand was inching its way up her midriff to her breast that was unfettered by stays or any decent covering. She leaned into him and felt the hard length of his body against her. She remembered it so well – had never forgotten how it felt to lie in his arms as he caressed her skin, ever so gently.

He moved them closer to shore so that his feet touched bottom, but Eleanor still floated against him. He turned her in his arms and lowered his hands to her buttocks while he dipped his head down to kiss her.

And she was lost.

His mouth melded to hers in a perfect fit, and she could not suppress her low groan of pleasure when his tongue touched hers. She opened for him, and when he pulled her hips against his, she felt his arousal against the juncture of her thighs.

She told herself she did not want this, even as she slid her hands up his chest and her fingers into the wet hair at his nape. Andrew deepened their kiss, and Ellie felt as though she were floating in a sea of pleasure.

Now she knew for certain he was naked, and she felt every bare inch of him against her thinly-clad body, especially when he drew her legs up and around his waist. Sweet heaven, it felt so right. It was what she’d missed during all those months she was away.

A powerful rush of emotion filled her, and she felt a hot burning again at the back of her throat and tears threatening to spill from her eyes. She wanted her father back . . . She wanted Andrew . . .

And she could have neither.

Andrew broke off the kiss when he felt Eleanor’s soft sob against his chest. He could see tears forming in her eyes.

“What is it, love?” he murmured against her temple. He’d been so certain she felt the same pull of desire that had driven him to kiss her. She wanted him as desperately as he wanted her. And yet . . .

“I m-must go back.” She pushed away from him and half-swam, half-walked back to the shore where she quickly pulled on her dress over her wet chemise. Andrew watched her quietly, and by the time he reached the shore, she had gathered up her belongings and headed up the path toward the manor.

He knew how futile it would be to try to catch up to her. Not only would it take too long for him to drag on his trews and shirt over his wet body – for he had no intention of sprinting up the path in the nude – he was not going to force her affections. It was important that she realize her mistake in believing Weatherby.

He slid back into the water and ducked down deep to cool his ardor and to try and understand what had caused her distress. If she’d been angry about the kiss, she’d have slapped him before running away.

But she had not. It wasn’t anger that had driven her away from him.

It was confusion.

As Andrew came up for air, he realized he’d only added to her stress. Her father had just died. And before that, she’d taken the long and arduous journey home from the continent, only to find Derington nearing his last breath. She’d cared for him during his last week on earth, then carried out his funeral only to be put out of her home by Derington’s heir.

Andrew needed to make things right for her.

He returned to shore and dragged on his clothes, then made his way back to Primrose Manor. Grayson was waiting in the bedchamber Andrew had claimed as his own, and the valet clucked his tongue at the state of his clothes.

“I’m going into town,” Andrew said. “I’ll need fresh clothes.”

“I should say so, Your Grace.”

“No further critique is necessary, Grayson. Only haste.”

In less than an hour, Andrew was on his way to Reading, with Jasper Carrick and Matthew, one of his footmen, at his side. He would have preferred to spend the rest of the afternoon and evening with Eleanor, but he knew his presence at the manor would not advance his cause. At least, not yet.

“The town is bustling, Your Grace,” Carrick remarked.

“Because of the races.”

So many people out and about – gentlemen escorting ladies, parents with their children. On every street they passed, there were troupes of street performers, some singing and playing stringed instruments, others were juggling and performing acrobatics. A few muscle-bound men performed feats of strength to the delight of the crowds.

People were talking and laughing together, and it all made Andrew yearn to share such frivolity with Eleanor.

“This way,” he said, turning into a narrow lane. He’d come to see Solicitor Evanhurst once before, more than a year ago, when Derington had put him in charge of Eleanor’s annuity. Her father had admitted to draining a substantial amount of the funds, and he’d seen the need to create a barrier between himself and the money that was to have been Eleanor’s dowry.

All that might have been true, but Andrew believed Derington sensed his own approaching demise and wanted to get his house in order first. It was fortunate he’d done so, for Andrew had invested most of the funds in a shipping venture to the Americas that had paid a handsome dividend. Eleanor’s annuity was worth four times what it had been when Derington had turned it over to him.

She was comfortably wealthy now and could do as she liked. Travel, keep a house in London, or live modestly in Berkshire . . . Andrew intended to give it all to her now. He wanted her to understand that she was not beholden to him in any way. He wanted her to choose him.

Eleanor felt shaken and at odds with her own emotions. She did not want to feel any grief for her father, and yet so many memories kept intruding on her peace of mind. Recollections of days past, when her parents were as one, and their family was happy.

And then there was the Duke of Beckworth. Dear God, would he never leave her alone? Couldn’t he just dole out her quarterly allowance as any normal trustee would do and leave her to her own devices?

Couldn’t he refrain from kissing her? A deep sigh shuddered through her.

“What is it, Miss?” Lizzie asked as she helped Eleanor into fresh clothes.

“Nothing, Lizzie.”

“Mrs. Thornberry says you haven’t come here much since your mum passed on.” Of course, Lizzie would not know, for she’d only been in Eleanor’s service about two years. Two very tumultuous years.

“No, I . . .” She straightened and put thoughts of Beckworth from her mind. “I will have to accustom myself to living here . . .”

“Yes, Miss. It’s a rather comfortable house. Perhaps in time it will seem like home.”

“You’re right, Lizzie. I’m sure I’ll get used to it again.”

But not to having Andrew so near.

Eleanor was afraid she would not be able to resist him if he persisted in trying to seduce her. Because, against all logic, she still desired him. He had filled her dreams from the day she met him, even after their aborted nuptials, when she’d learned what a cad he truly was.

And still her body yearned for his touch.

“Mrs. Thornberry said that the duke’s secretary came to see him on urgent business.”

Eleanor frowned. She’d been too preoccupied to consider that Beckworth was neglecting his responsibilities in London to harass her here. “Did she know what business it was?”

Perhaps he was buying yet another house for some woman whose bed he shared.

“’Tis about a law he and Sir Robert Peel are trying to pass through Parliament. Something about children working in the mills.”

Eleanor felt a twinge of guilt for thinking her petty thoughts. Of course he had business. Parliament was still in session, and Eleanor knew he had an important bill to pass.

His efforts to improve conditions for children in factories spoke well of him. Ellie had seen some of the urchins he referred to, and she had felt more than a small measure of sympathy for them. If her own childhood had been dismal, what must theirs be? Toiling in one of those dusty mills from dawn until dark, rarely even seeing the light of day. She shuddered.